


Dimensions Lost

by fandom_cat



Category: Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare, The Bane Chronicles - Sarah Rees Brennan & Cassandra Clare & Maureen Johnson
Genre: Alec is the Chosen Champion, Angels versus Demons, Corruption, Downworlders, Gen, Guardian Angels, Headcanon, Heaven vs Hell, Most of the time, Other, POV Alec, The Clave (Shadowhunter Chronicles), The Law, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7921063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_cat/pseuds/fandom_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Council member brings charges against Alec of conspiracy against the Clave, but before the trial could even begin, and Angel descends upon the gathered Shadowhunters. She brings them news from Heaven: the Nephilim are soon to be no more - an experiment which has come to an end. All that remains is to wait for the Archangels to arrive and cast judgement upon the corrupted Clave, while the celestial legions face the Princes of Hell and their demon hoards for one last stand to defend the Earth dimension from perish.<br/>Rated M for upcoming violent scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - Stand Accused

“I call for the Inquisitor to recuse himself from the next case we bring before the Clave,” Enzo Montclair, a tall, lean sort of man called loudly from his seat at the furthest end from Jace.

 

Jace lifted his head from the overwhelmingly boring meeting, to stare down at his father Robert, who looked huge in his grey Inquisitor robes even while sitting. Robert stared up at Montclair, as perplexed as Jace felt – it was rare to question the objectivity of their leaders, and of the one charged with upholding Shadowhunter Law no less. Sure, a lot of Inquisitors were corrupt, but not Robert Lightwood.

Never!

A bit confused and perhaps odd, but not corrupt.

Jace glanced to his right at Alec, to check what he thought. His parabatai had managed to stay completely composed in the face of pure unfiltered boredom, which was why he was a much better man than Jace. To his left, Clary and Simon were having a thumb war behind Izzy’s back. (They should hope she wouldn’t catch them, or else Jace would have to help his sister kick her own boyfriend’s ass – not that she needed help, but he was just helpful like that, when it came to Simon and asskicking!)

When Alec looked at Jace, and then Izzy looked up to stare at the boys too, and Clary and Simon both stopped their mundane nerd games to join the Shadowhunter glare contest, there was a bubble of understanding among the group – this was trouble.

Either Robert was in trouble, or somebody else they knew. Why else would they ask the Inquisitor to recuse himself?

 

“I didn't do anything!” Jace said just in case.

 

Both Clary and Alec opened their mouths to protest this slightly-almost-true statement, but then Montclair spoke again.

 

“The matter to be presented creates a conflict of interest.”

 

“What matter?” Robert demanded with the air of overwhelming authority the combination of his built and grey robe created together.

 

Montclair didn't flinch. “You may find it difficult to objectively question the accused.”

 

“Who is…?” Robert began, but Jia Penhallow, the Consul, took charge.

 

“Name your charges and the one you bring them against, Enzo,” she required. “I give you a word if Robert Lightwood has a conflict of interest, I will demand he steps down for the trial.”

 

That seemed to satisfy Montclair, but not Jace – there was something too sinister about the smile. It reminded him of a vulture’s – if vultures would smile.

 

“I would like to, unfortunately and with a heavy heart, bring charges to one of our own,” Montclair began with the remorseful tone of a snake. “It is a matter most disturbing: abandoning the Nephilim mandate, our ways, forgetting our Law… And conspiring, against the Clave for the benefit of Downworlders who hate us. Our most esteemed Council members here, I trust, are a welcome exception of course. But we who remember the past know – not all of Downworld accept us as their watchmen.”

 

Jace presumed Magnus had not tried to be subtle, when he flicked his fingers at Montclair. The warlock was eternally bored in his stance, but his cat eyes glared with frustration.

 

“An attitude you obviously find undeserved, I presume.”

 

“Magnus Bane,” Montclair said the man’s name as of it was a curse. Very quietly next to Jace, Alec muttered a warning for the Shadowhunter – nobody tried to offend his boyfriend in front of him. Naturally, Jace would help if they needed to tackle Montclair, but it was doubtfully necessary. One, Alec could shoot him perfectly fine with an arrow to the knee on his own. Two, if he really pissed him off, Magnus was perfectly capable of defending himself as well. Possibly he could turn Montclair into a spider. Or a rat – then they'll have something to annoy Simon with!

 

“Your voice is always appreciated,” Montclair lied with ease, “but perhaps I could first name my case.”

 

“Then hurry up and name it!” Robert’s voice boomed like a cannon in the hall. “This is not an acceptance speech, and the Clave has other duties. To their Institutes, for example.”

 

True. Today's hall was jammed with Shadowhunters from all over the world – all Institutes were present. Jace had no idea why this many of them had gathered. Last time it had had happened, they had been at war, and even then a big number had not shown: either because they had not had the courage, or because they had fallen in battle.

Montclair smiled a sly big smile.

 

“Naturally,” he agreed too easily. “I bring charges against Alexander Gideon Lightwood for failing in our Shadowhunter mandate, neglecting his duties to mundanes and to his comrades, conspiracy against the Clave, and aiding Downworlders in acts against the Nephilim kind.”

 

A stunned silence. Then…

 

“WHAT?!” Jace yelled, and was not the only one.

 

Magnus, red and black sequins of his shirt trembling under the guise of his shaking anger, had risen from his seat just like Jace. Clary and Izzy were up too, and after a brief consideration, Simon rose to glare across at Montclair in awe. (The girls were blocking his view.) Alec was again the only one baring it – he had not moved an inch. Or maybe he was too stunned to react.

How dare that slimy little…

 

“How dare you?” Robert demanded. His thick dark eyebrows had met on his forehead and his blue eyes blazed with the Angel’s own fury. “My son has not…”

 

“Then he would gladly agree to be tried by The Sword and clear his name. And the Lightwood name, which—hmm…”

 

“What are you implying, Montclair?!” Maryse spoke, finally perhaps finding her voice from beneath the shock.

 

The man quickly retracted any potentially racist, anti-Downworld, anti-gay statements he was perhaps ready to make seconds ago. He put his hands up and pretended to be peaceful. As if!

 

“Nothing beyond the accusations I bring before the Clave, of course,” he promised.

 

Everywhere Jace watched, he saw stunned or angry faces. A few were perhaps pleased, or curious, or clueless, but even Jia Penhallow looked mad from where he was standing.

 

“You have certainly brought us a matter for close consideration,” she noted grimly. “And I will have to require that the Inquisitor steps down; for _this session_ ,” she spoke firmer so Robert wouldn't interrupt, “I will take over the duties of Robert Lightwood. Bring forward your evidence, Montclair.”

 

It wasn't clear who was more livid – Jace or Magnus. Alec was just confused. He was looking between his boyfriend, his father, and his parabatai, as if expecting an explanation. Jace just pursed his lips and glared at Montclair in the hope to somehow invoke his warlock ancestry and turn the man into an ugly warty frog.

 

“My case is based on weekly meetings Alexander Lightwood has had with the leader of the Brooklyn Vampire clan and the Alpha of the Jade wolf pack. It was during those meeting Downworlders were regularly advised and instructed to circumvent Shadowhunter Law…”

 

“That isn't true,” Alec spoke finally.

 

His voice was surprisingly loud and clear; his blue eyes were full of resolve. Jace watched his parabatai rise, tall and towering as he was, and stand proud in front of the entire Clave. Alec cast one glance sideways to Jace: _I will not go down quietly_ , it seemed to say. That was usually Jace’s way, and he approved readily of chances to show the more prejudiced branches of the Clave who is boss, but it seemed odd to watch the calm Alec take the same attitude on.

But Montclair was attacking a part of Alec's life he had worked so hard to build; a part which had made him happy, along with Magnus and their children. Taking that away under false pretences…

Jace understood the need of Alec to stand up for himself.

 

“You're talking as if those meetings were to act against the Clave; I have worked to protect the Law all my life…”

 

“So you admit those meetings took place?” Montclair asked, smiling his sly smile. Simon muttered something about plausible deniability under his breath.

 

Alec tried to explain one more time. “Yes. But we did not conspire against the Clave. I tried to…”

 

“That is your claim,” Montclair noted. “But how could that be trusted, when your loyalties are put into question—”

 

“You're the one putting them to question!” Magnus and Maryse both yelled in a surprising unison. They were both perhaps too stunned to continue defending Alec, because Montclair took over again before either could utter another word.

 

“Yes, there is no plausible way to confirm what happened on those meetings, since the majority took place in the loft of the High Warlock of Brooklyn and were not supervised or sanctioned by a representative of the Clave.”

 

“I am a representative of the Clave!” Alec protested. “And for the past years I have tried to mend the relationship with Downworld—a relationship damaged by things like this trial! They don't trust us, but once a week, two of their leaders sit down and listen to a Shadowhunter about the Law, about the best way to uphold it while respecting their own way of life.”

 

People mostly those Jace's age or younger started nodding and muttering in agreement. Their lives had surely been changed ever since the Mortal war, the war against Sebastian, the whole commotion in Faerie: cooperating with Downworlders and trusting them had become almost the norm among the younger generations. They were ready to believe that Alec's actions – daring to exist in a room with a vampire and a werewolf – were not a crime.

Jace wasn't sure what the others thought.

 

“Well, they must have misunderstood your message, Alexander Lightwood,” Montclair said coldly. “Because even though there aren't witnesses to the meetings, there are those who had overheard your two co-conspirators _discussing_ what had occurred during them. And, well…”

 

Magnus, who unlike the rest of them had not yet sat back down at his spot on the Council floor, was staring at Montclair as if he was picking the collection of spells he was planning to use on him. But for now, the warlock spoke English, albeit with a tone which implied he wanted to curse.

 

“You had the leaders of the Brooklyn Downworlders followed and surveyed? And then speak of trust?”

 

Next to him, the renewed Fairy representative – a full blooded Seelie Princess – snickered at Magnus's surprise. She didn't stand up or even acknowledge the Clave; she spoke to her fellow Downworlders instead.

 

“Typical Shadowhunter arrogance!”

 

“That arrogance you speak of, or caution as I call it, has proven justified!” Montclair stated proudly. “Witnesses confirm the accused has given instructions to circumvent Shadowhunter justice, and has repeatedly failed to report any incidents he was aware of to his local Institute. Thanks to his actions, illegal Downworld activity has gone unchecked time after time.”

 

“Hold on a moment, Montclair,” Jia Penhallow spoke, cutting off whatever snarky remark Magnus was readying himself to make. “Local Institutes govern themselves mostly – how would you be aware of any failure to report.”

 

“Let us ask the Institute’s head—let us ask Jonathan Herondale and Clarissa Fairchild, for example, about the...” Montclair checked some notes. “The 26/10/2015, a Thursday, at around 5 p.m. Alexander Lightwood was called by the local Vampire clan leader to aid her in restraining an underling of hers who was under the influence and had picked up a fight with a pair of Pucas. Was there a report about that issue?”

 

Jace frowned. He remembered that night. They had gone to calm down Lily Chen’s friend—Emmet? Edgar? Elli? Jace had no idea. And they had not written a report  - it wasn’t a big deal. There were no demons, no mundane harmed, and no Laws broken.

 

“The Conclave does not waste Clave time with incidents where there have been no broken noses,” Jace announced, hands crossed at his chest. “The vampire got a bit roughed up, but he is a bit annoying and could take some smoothing of his edges. No Laws broken – no incident report.”

 

“But Conlcave help was required – and provided!” Montclair noted as if that was news. “Therefore there must be a report.”

 

“If you have an issue with how Clary and I keep our paperwork, then say so!” Jace was annoyed. He was done with Montclair five minutes ago, and his case sounded more and more fabricated. “But don’t accuse my parabatai of conspiracy. After he saved the world—after we all saved your asses—it’s a bit ungrateful.”

 

“That, I am afraid, has nothing to do with the accusations,” The Consul noted. “But I must admit that Jace Herondale has a point: if this is a matter of missing paperwork...”

 

“I can provide witnesses who would confirm Alexander Lightwood has given instructions how to avoid Clave justice!” Montclair insisted stubbornly. “With even the possibility of such violation...”

 

“Helping Downworlders understand the Law means helping them upkeep it!” Alec objected. “I have done nothing wrong.”

 

“Then be tried and rest easy that the Clave would find no wrongdoing,” Montclair insisted.

 

Magnus, still standing, threw his hands up in a sign of total desperation with the Clave and its drama. Jace felt he should be doing the same, but he withheld his reaction for later, when he would punch Montclair in the face for being an annoying bore.

 

“Alright, enough,” Jia Penhallow said. “I cannot ignore the existence of witnesses. _I will_ ,” she had to raise her voice again, since the entire New York Conclave was rising up to protest, “ _put the matter for a vote_. Council members will decide: Should there be a trial to establish the absence or presence of any wrongdoing on the part of Alexander Gideon Lightwood? All those against...”

 

Magnus and Maryse immediately raised hands to vote against. So did the other Downworld representatives. So did others – almost half. But not quite.

 

“Those in favour...”

 

Hands rose, Montclair’s was the fastest. He had gathered over half of the vote. There will be a trial then.

The rage in Jace’s heart was reflected in the eyes of his friends. Izzy looked back at her brother, turned to him, and they could all see she had her whip untangled and in her palm, clenching it like a lifeline. Her brothers knew what she was saying: _I won’t let them do this to you_. Very slowly, Alec shook his head – he had that determined face he wore at times, when there was a mission ahead and there were hard choices to make; Alec had always been able to make peace with the inevitable somehow.

Another reason he was a better man than Jace.

To her credit, Jia Penhallow looked livid with the decision. But she had to go through with it. So she spoke calmly.

 

“Alexander Lightwood. Please step forward to be tried by The Sword. The accusing Council member would present his case – and you will have a chance to defend yourself. The Clave will, at this time, question you about this matter to confirm any further need for a trial...”

 

Alec didn’t shake or look away as he stopped down. He passed Jace, Izzy, Clary and Simon on his way to the stairs; his eyes watched Montclair only, although for a second they as if flickered to his boyfriend – in a warning. There would be no need to do anything rash. Of course not – Alec was innocent.

Yet this trial was outrageous!

 

“You’re all idiots!” Jace felt the need to say very loudly. Alec stared back at him – another warning.

 

“You will respect the Council’s authority, Jace Herondale!” Jia Penhallow demanded strictly. She was beginning to be less of a favourite to Jace by the minute. “Your parabatai is being tried, not sentenced.”

 

“You will sentence him over my dead body!” Jace warned.

 

Down from where Magnus stood, came a murmur of approval. Jace glanced at the warlock’s direction and hoped he had read the resolve in the man’s eyes right: if it came to it, they won’t let Alec be punished with Clave justice. Jace would rather die than let them tear his bond with Alec and send him away in exile, like they had done to his distant ancestors. Or rather, Kit Herondale’s ancestors.

 

“The Law, if you remember, Jonathan, is hard, but it is the Law,” the Consul reminded. Simon puffed at the phrase – he found it fascist. The label had earned him a whole room worth of nerd stuff (or whatever those gadgets attached to the giant TV were) from Magnus for his birthday. Apparently they agreed on the matter.

 

Jace crossed his hands but said nothing. He wasn’t about to argue his own decision to defend his parabatai from the silly political decisions of the Clave! Izzy and Magnus both seemed to agree. Clary, knowing him so well, was already sliding her hand to the weapons on her belt, just in case; Simon caressed the string of his bow, as if warning it its services might be required.

 

“Jace,” Alec called him from the steps. “I want to do this. I want to prove them wrong.” He looked down at his boyfriend, perhaps concerned Magnus also needed convincing. “Let me prove them wrong.”

 

The warlock was not pleased, but with pursed lips yet pride in his eyes, he nodded. Jace did not such thing. He remained with crossed hands, secretly caressing the hilt of his seraph blade – it cut perfectly fine through chains; Izzy’s whip and Magnus’s magic would do a fine job of keeping everybody away from them as they made it out: everybody was scared of those things!

Alec walked down. A Silent Brother was bringing the Mortal Sword to the centre so it could be used to question the man – they said it hurt and the thought of his parabatai being in pain made Jace uncomfortable for a variety of reasons. This entire ordeal was a charade – one which came just after they had mended some small fraction of the damaged relations with Downworld, after the Los Angeles Institute had managed with blood and loss to restore the Fairy’s trust in Shadowhunters. When would the vicious circle end?

The entire hall was still as Alec walked to the Mortal Sword. Jace stood at the edge of his seat now, and Magnus was still standing. The vampire representative – Lupei[1], a rather ironic name for a bloodsucker – tried to pull the warlock down and got a look which made him reconsider risking his hand again. Eternity was too long to spend without any limb.

 

“Alexander Lightwood, please hold the Sword,” the Consul asked simply.

 

Only a slight pause gave away Alec’s hesitation. Jace stared—everybody stared, as Alec extended his arms and reached for the handle. The hall had frozen in time.

 

And then...

 


	2. Stand Sentenced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody is too stunned to react when an Angel descends in the middle of a Clave meeting. But their awe turns into fear when she tells them why she has come to Earth.  
> This chapter continues into a general Headcannon direction: a big war is coming and the Nephilim are cast aside, having lost Heaven's trust and mercy.

And then the skies erupted.

 

Well, not the skies, but something. Jace was frozen – stunned into silence and motionlessness and awe – as the hall, the city, the country, the world parted into two and light poured out over the centre of the room. The Council members, Alec, the Downworld representatives were all bathed in it, and all the rest of them could do is watch through the blinding shine in the hopes of seeing something.

 

“What is happening?” Izzy shouted, as if it was the light would be damaging their hearing as well as their sight.

 

Jace couldn’t put it into words. He knew it – he felt something, in his blood, in his core; it the pulsed with the blood of the Nephilim and the warlocks and the Angels. Something was coming and it had already gotten to Alec and Magnus. To Maryse and Robert.

 

“Heaven,” Clary muttered next to him. “Heaven is coming.”

 

The light retracted and the world closed. It gathered in the centre to a figure – a bright tall winged figure of a woman. She was perhaps twice the size of any human, and the feathers behind her shone in gold and silver and bronze; her eyes burned with Heavenly fire, and even from far away Jace could feel it touching him again with the heat of celestial judgement.

He knew what he was seeing – an Angel descending.

But he was not interested in that. His friends were down there, and he stood on his seat to find them. Jace found his parabatai first: Alec looking at Magnus, Magnus looking back at Alec, searching for each other. They seemed fine, albeit in awe. Behind the heat of Heavenly fire, the other Council members emerged, some more perplexed and scared than others; and behind the light of Heaven, there they were, safe – Robert and Maryse.

 

“Nephilim,” the Angel spoke with the voice of other worlds, with the power of creation embedded behind the tone of her every syllable. “You have been tried in the Courts of Heaven and found guilty of failures of blood and oath. I have been sent to warn you – the Archangels, my brothers, follow suit from the Gates to descend and pass lawful judgement upon you. So is Heaven’s will.”

 

The finality of the Angel’s words was all-encompassing, yet they meant nothing to Jace. What was that – Heaven’s judgement? What were they guilty of? And was she talking to all Nephilim, or just a portion, which had broken some oath to Heaven? The message, it seemed, was not very clear.

Jace expected that to be that – Angels were not known for sticking around for long chats and supper. But instead of reopening whatever portal she had used and slipping back into Heaven’s dimension, the woman/celestial being lingered. She watched down in her feet, at the Council, at the Mortal Sword, at Alec...

And then she began to shrink! Centimetre by centimetre, the body grew down to that of a normal human. The light retracted further, and all the womanhood of her bared in front of them all – wings included. She wrapped herself in them, not out of shame perhaps, since Jace doubted she had such Earthly concerns. The Angel descended further, lowering herself entirely to the ground in the centre across from Alec, still staring down at him and the Sword; her wings turned—transformed—melted into clothes: a golden tunic and white trousers, flat brown boots reaching to her knees. No weapons were visible anywhere. (Jace was greatly disappointed.)

Next to him, Clary watched down mesmerised – she had always had a stronger bond to Heaven than him, at least in terms of her ability to communicate to Angels. Ithuriel had chosen her to send visions to, and hers was the gift of celestial symbols. Perhaps right now Clary could hear something they could not. Jace touched his girlfriend’s shoulder and she looked up, confusion and worry in her eyes. Immediately that made him reach for his seraph blade, and he noted to himself Simon was holding his bow ready in front of him too, arrow at the string – through their parabatai bond, he had sensed Clary’s concerns earlier than Jace.

The Angel’s light retracted completely within her the moment she touched the ground with her feet. The world was still quiet, still full of Shadowhunters waiting, barely breathing.

 

“Nerissa,” the Angel spoke now with a more human voice. It was still heavy with long millennia of life and the burned edges of a sword forged in Heavenly fire. She turned to the Downworld representatives, extending one long hand with smooth skin the colour of mahogany wood towards the Seelie Princess. “It is agreeable to see you return to lighter realms again, child,” the Angel said to her. “Would that mean your grief is easier to manage?”

 

“Barely,” Nerissa admitted with a stone face. “But you must not worry your heart about it.”

 

The Angel smiled. Kindly. “I always worry,” she said.

 

Then she turned to stare at the Sword again. She stepped closer – just one tiny step – and Magnus launched forward as if she had drawn a weapon or summoned the fires of Heaven to strike Alec down. The Angel turned to him so fast it was almost as if the motion had not existed: one moment she stared at the Sword with Alec behind it, and then another her gaze was pinning Magnus with its power. The warlock froze in his spot. Hesitation? Heavenly spells cast upon him? Jace couldn’t tell.

 

“You mustn’t worry, little nephew,” the Angel told him and Magnus gasped, as if she had cursed him with the title. “I come bringing no harm to the Nephilim. I am a messenger. And a warrior in another war – bigger than a petty human trial for a petty human reason.”

 

The Angel walked with three smooth steps to stand at the other side of the Mortal Sword. Alec stared at her and in his heart Jace knew he was not concerned – something about her put him at ease.

 

“Alexander Lightwood,” she said, speaking his name with gentle fondness, as if he was a long-lost friend. “It is a delightful honour to finally meet your acquaintance. I am Armaita – the Angel of Truth, true love, and the wisdom held within a human heart. I guide lovers to their soul-mates; I am the kind honesty in a heart and the brutal sincerity in truthful words. Privileged is how I feel in your presence – one of few true warriors of Heaven left on Earth.”

 

The Angel inclined her head at Alec, respectful. Shadowhunters around the hall began shifting, murmuring, wondering perhaps a thousand things about this celestial being roaming this dimension, in the Nephilim’s own country. There were many questions. And it seemed they felt bold enough to ask them, now Armaita had started addressing individuals within the hall.

 

“Angel Armaita, honoured messenger of Heaven,” Jia Penhallow dared speak, “if we may...?”

 

“General Armaita,” the Angel corrected. “I lead the Cupidon Legions of Heaven. And yes, you may: you may ask two things of me, and I will answer them fully and with honesty. Then I must take my leave.”

 

“Of course,” the Consul hurried to agree. “It must be draining to appear before us in a human form.”

 

“Hardly,” Armaita said. Then she hurried to add, “Don’t waste your questions, young Nephilim warrior. Ask wisely.”

 

Jia looked around, as if she could read the thoughts in the hall, and asked her fellow Shadowhunters help her choose the right words. Jace himself would have started with: Where are you weapons, Oh Mighty Heavenly General?

 

“You said we were found guilty of failing our blood and our oath. What does that mean?”

 

“It means,” the Angel explained, “Raziel himself was called twice in a decade upon Earth; he saw the grounds of this dimension and found them overgrown with corruption, deceit, demonic influence, and yet lacking the noble warriors he had left to breed and spread upon these lands. He cast a gaze upon his Nephilim and saw them heading for destruction. He noted only few among them who still carried in their heart the true purpose of the Shadowhunter race. As Raziel returned to Heaven, he requested upon a judgement from his brothers and sisters: the Heavenly Council gathered to judge the Nephilim and their ability to fulfil their mandate. You were given the chance to defend yourselves, of course. Notable members of your race who dwell in Heaven were called to testify in your favour. Let’s say, I would live a happy life if I never in my remaining millennia hear another Herondale speak.”

 

As she said that, the Angel’s eyes flickered for a moment in Jace’s direction. Armaita did not linger, but it seemed the entire hall of Shadowhunters was now staring at him – as if he was the only Herondale present! Why wouldn’t they stare at Kit a little? Arguably, Jace was much handsomer and a better warrior, but still – some propriety was required! Even Alec, who had been staring at the Angel all this time, cast a glance over his shoulder. He seemed to be grinning.

 

“But Heaven looked at the path you have walked and to where you are now headed,” Armaita continued. “We determined after much consideration Nephilim have been corrupted by the temptations of Hell. You had started, only a century after Jonathan Shadowhunter, down a road of destructive separatism, which has divided Earth’s dimension into weak shattered conflicted pieces. Now demons come even easier to roam here, feed on humans and infect them on your watch with demonic decease. Heaven does not look kindly on alliances with Hell.”

 

A stunned silence followed this statement. Only the Seelie Lady and the vampire Lupei seemed to be in smug agreement with the Angel – they were nodding their heads and whispering between one another. Perhaps it was a great piece of gossip to them that Shadowhunters were accused of aiding demons. But it was not a funny joke – not for them who had been to a Hell’s dimension, sacrificed so much, and somehow had to live with the consequences of it. Heaven were apparently even bigger idiots than the Clave!

 

“That is outrageous!” Robert Lightwood dared speak. His booming voice had found again its strength, perhaps now that he felt safe Alec won’t be smitten down by the Angel before him. “Shadowhunters serve humans, kill demons. We fulfil our mandate, cast from Heaven...”

 

“And what is that mandate?” Armaita interrupted.

 

Robert stuttered, as if he had forgotten what that was. But he responded, once he found his composure.

 

“To guard humanity against demon kind. To fight in the eternal war with Hell.”

 

“And which part of it required casting out infected humans and then beginning to hunt them down as dogs? Which part of it allowed you to refuse the wisdom of ancient humans as the warlocks, deny their magic and hunt them for sport and trophies? Which part of the mandate permitted you to establish yourselves as the dominators of this realm?” Armaita’s fury seemed to make her grow again, albeit just in statue and not in actual size. Many cowered under her gaze, and Robert seemed rather regretful of ever opening his mouth. “Pride and envy are Hell’s virtues, Nephilim children. And with your Law and the way you worship it... Heaven has not cast any rules after the Garden – we’ve learned free will is not supposed to be contained; we hand out mandates and leave it to humans to forge their own way. By committing yourselves to a fake Law, you chose the way of Hell.

“Ask your second question,” the Angel demanded with a tone which left no space for arguments.

 

“You said the Nephilim had been found guilty,” the Consul said. “So what does that mean?”

 

The Angel didn’t answer right away. She cast her eyes around the room, with sorrow and hardness and love all tangled in a single gaze. Jace couldn’t make out the colour of her eyes from here, but he could tell they were alight with emotions right now. She was grieving.

 

“The Archangels have gathered you all here to cast judgement upon you. Didn’t you wonder why all of Nephilim blood all of a sudden poured into Idris for a simple meeting? Heaven beckoned and you answered.

“The Archangels will descend, and strip all adult Shadowhuntes of their Angel blood. They will leave your Marks upon your skin. Your young ones – all the children – would be protected from the effect, but they will be resettled into the mundane world – with new families and no memory of the Shadow world. Heaven is closing down its experiment.”

 

“You would separate us from our children? Leave us human and defenceless against demons?” Maryse protested, appalled by the idea.

 

“No,” Armaita explained. “This is not Heaven’s justice. The sentence is to be stripped of Angel’s blood but not your Marks.” The grief had deepened, now as large as an endless well. She looked defeated and in his heart Jace felt he was afraid of what could make and Angel so sorrowful. “The Words of Heaven will remain on your skin, it will burn through your humanity and turn you... into Forsaken. The children we will keep safe and happy, since no fault lies in them.”

 

Silence. And then:

 

“How is that justice?” Magnus protested with horror.

 

He had paled all the way to Alec's skin tone, which was an impressive change of his usual rich oak complexion. Jace felt sick to his stomach.

 

“I do not protest to your reasoning, little nephew,” Armaita told him softly. “I lead the defence of the Nephilim in Heaven. But the judgement has been passed and I cannot change it. The only comfort I can give you is that Raphael will not be taken away from you, as it should be. He is your son, after all.”

 

“That—it’s not... I can’t even—” Magnus, usually so well-versed and completely prepared for anything, couldn’t find words. “Is this what Heaven calls mercy?”

 

“No,” Armaita admitted. “We call it retribution.”


	3. Stand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec senses a strange outlandish relation to Armaita he cannot explain. But while he tries to figure it out - and how to feel about this judgement, and his life crumbling around him yet again - his fellow Shadowhunters had made a collective unspoken decision:
> 
> Heaven had descended not as friend but as foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, guys! Thank you for all the kudos and the comments. I cherish them all greatly - they inspire me to write! 
> 
> I take constructive criticism quite well, so also feel free to say if something sounds off. I'd love to discuss any differing opinions: from interpretation of characters, how does the new celestial element fit withing CC's world... Anything you'd like!
> 
> Apologies for the stretched-out posting schedule: I have been busy. Please don't take it as a sign this fic will not continue. I have sometimes an unforgivably busy life and it can take a while. I will try to have the next chapter here soon. 
> 
> Also, sorry about a mistake in chapter 1 - I spelled Rafael wrong, which will be corrected in the future.

 

Alec couldn’t explain the oddity of the situation. He needed Magnus’s outlandish words to do it, and he had no immediate access to his boyfriend. The warlock was still closer to the Downworld representatives than he was to him, and there was a shining powerful Angel across from Alec anyway, which was what had originally made this entire situation completely bizarre in an indescribable way.

The moment he had laid eyes on the celestial General who called herself Armaita, he could feel some understanding. He just couldn’t tell exactly _what he understood_. It was a sensation – of clarity, of relation, of purpose. He wondered if other Shadowhunters could feel it as well: their blood boiling within their veins, being called forward by Armaita’s very being?

Alec had listened to her interact casually with the Lady Nerissa and Magnus, as if they were old friends. He had heard her answer Jia Penhallow’s questions, but it all seemed irrelevant.

Perhaps it took a while for it to sink in – that as they spoke, the Archangels of Heaven were coming for them. They would take away their angelic blood, unmake them as Nephilim and put an end to their race. It should terrify him; it should scare him to the core, but somehow it didn’t.

 

Maybe he was still processing.

 

The other Shadowhunters didn’t seem to have his slow reaction time. People were up in their seats, some were already running out of the hall, some were shouting down at Armaita, cursing, and some were hugging, clinging to their loved ones in terror. Jace and Clary were up there, hand-in-hand, his parabatai had placed one hand casually over his seraph blade as if he expected the Archangels to burst in right away – and he would fight them to his death, if they tried to harm anyone he loved. They were standing to the side of Simon, who unsurprisingly had to hold back Izzy as she was yelling down at the Angel.

 

“If you want to kill us, why not do it with some dignity? Why do you have to add this... this thing to the list?”

 

Izzy sounded at a loss of words. Yet Armaita understood.

 

“I have decided neither the outcome of the trial nor the sentence itself,” Armaita announced over the commotion. It suddenly settled, as if she had ordered the silence. “And I don’t have the power to reverse it. Or have you not seen, Isabelle Lightwood, what happens to Angels who rebel the will of Heaven? I have no desire to follow the faith of the Princes of Hell!”

 

Alec had seen very clearly what rebelling did to an Angel. Magnus's father – the demon Asmodeus – was indeed powerful in his realm, and had exercised every bit of his demonic influence to coerce whatever he could out of them when they were trying to escape Edom. It had almost cost them Simon, and had caused unquieting pain to all his friends. Magnus had wondered so many times whether he was not a horrible person for letting an eighteen-year-old pay the price Asmodeus had required of his son. He had been drowned by guilt, even when he wouldn't say it to Alec – but Alec could see.

 

“OK, I’m done now!” an aggravated voice Alec found familiar shouted. It was Emma Carstairs, with her sword in hand, standing on top of her seat. Her parabatai Julian was standing too, but between the rows of benches, one hand armed with a seraph blade and another placed on a young girl’s shoulder who looked like his sister. Alec wondered what the younger Blackthorn was doing here – she shouldn’t be allowed in a Clave meeting.

 

“You can’t come in here and threaten us all,” Emma stated. “And most of all – you can’t judge us for the sins of our ancestors! Some of us try to make things better. Some of us unite with Downworlders, because we know together we achieve more against our enemies. You want to destroy all chance that we could unite? To me, it sound like you’re the ones aiding the demons if you plan to leave this world unprotected.”

 

“We plan no such thing,” Armaita told Emma Carstairs. “Furthermore, I have already told you the decision was not mine – it was voted by all Angels across all realms. And I cannot change it.”

 

“Yea,” Emma said. “But you’re the one who’s here, so _I vote_ to take it out on the messenger.”

 

To Alec’s surprise, Armaita grinned and shook her head, as if she found Emma’s threat childishly amusing. It probably was so, to an Angel. Actually, Alec doubted any of them could be a fair match for her – all the power he could feel glowing out of her, the pull which called to his blood...

And honestly, it would be a bit disappointing if she was so easy to defeat.

 

“You want to turn them all into Forsaken? You’ll torture them to death for the sins of all generations before them?” Magnus asked in a death whisper.

 

The moment he said it – out loud for all to hear – it suddenly snapped into Alec’s mind. He forgot about the call to his blood, the celestial beacon he felt in the centre of his heart, the music of eternal life ringing in his ears. It was Magnus, staring down at Alec that opened his mind to the reality of his faith—of all their faiths: they were going to spend their last moments on Earth mad with heavenly magic, mindless and begging to die.

And Magnus was going to see it all.

 

“It’s a punishment,” Alec stated with new-found anger. “It is not what we deserve. Is that what Heaven is like?”

 

He felt the rage pulsate in his veins and push away the calling towards Armaita. She looked at him with big sad eyes the colour of sunlight, and her sorrow – a confirmation of his unspoken accusation of cruelty – made him even more furious.

Alec had just found it: family, security, happiness. He had just felt content, at peace with himself. And today two people had tried to take that away. Well, one person and one Angel. But he was not about to let either get away with it!

 

“Heaven is hard,” Armaita confirmed. “It’s full of warriors, after all. But today, your fellow Nephilim were going to cast you out for being one of the few to uphold true Shadowhunter mandate, Alec Lightwood. If anything, it proves the Angels recognized correctly that the corruption runs too deep.”

 

“But Alec’s existence is a proof there are Shadowhunters who are better than that!” Jace shouted, anger burdening his voice. “Maybe you don’t have things like faith or hope out there in Angel-land.”

 

But it wasn’t Jace’s words that captured Armaita’s attention. It was Magnus’s.

 

“I will not let you,” he whispered.

 

Alec heard it because he always could hear Magnus. Armaita heard it because she had been watching him. Even as Jace spoke down to her, she had been staring at the warlock, as if she could see something in him the others couldn’t. Perhaps she could spot what Alec could read all over his boyfriend’s face – he wasn’t letting some silly judgement tear apart his family.

Magnus had never been one to respect the rules.

But even the powerful High Warlock of Brooklyn couldn’t defy Heaven. Although it looked like he was ready to try.

 

“You don’t have to stay and watch, Magnus,” Armaita told him with the sorrow of thousand worlds. “It would be safer if you don’t. At the very least because the Archangels don’t shy away from handing down sins from one generation to another; but also, because if you attack them, they won’t respond kindly.”

 

“It wasn’t them I was planning to attack,” Magnus informed her.

 

“Don’t do it, Magnus,” Alec warned, guessing what his boyfriend was thinking, anticipating the rise of warlock magic by the way Magnus held his body, the way his eyes flickered.

 

“I know who you were planning to attack,” the Angel admitted. “Or should I say – distract?”

 

Armaita swung. And just as they have melted into her body, her giant wings reappeared; they swiped the air behind her, but it wasn’t a current that flew back – it was Alec’s parents. Robert and Maryse had attempted to sneak behind the Angel and capture her, while Magnus and Jace provided a good distraction by arguing a lost cause.

This was all pointless.

Alec looked up at Izzy, at Jace, at his friends in this hall, who would soon be Forsaken. He wasn’t afraid of his faith, or the suffering he would have to endure. But he felt the burden of those left behind – the shadow of soul-encompassing grief he always saw lurking in Magnus’s eyes when he recalled a loved one long gone; Alec shuddered at the pain of loss felt so early in their children’s lives. He feared being turned last and having to watch the rest suffer and change, becoming creatures worthy only of pity.

Was this faith deserving even of enemies? Yet Heaven chose to cast it down on their own creations.

 

“Alec, catch!”

 

Jace’s voice got him out of a trance. His parents might have failed, but the entire hall was now in arms, trying to capture Armaita. She had not retracted her wings, and somehow she had retrieved weapons – a pair of sai[1] which shone with bright lights of all colours. For a moment, Alec’s mind flashed with a memory he usually tried to forget: the witch stone shining in Magnus’s hand, casting multicoloured sparks in a dark tunnel.

Then his bow and quiver Jace had thrown landed in Alec’s outstretched hands and he forgot about everything else. By the time he had swirled around with a loaded arrow, a number of other Shadowhunters had risen from their seats and launched down at the Angel. Magnus and the Lady Nerissa were there too, hurrying to the centre where Alec was.

Armaita was not afraid. Her sunlight eyes cast shadows of grief as she enveloped herself in her wings as if cocooned into them. Alec’s flying arrow hit them and shattered to dust. So did others. Armaita crouched down to the ground as more people rushed to her, weapons blazing, and daggers and arrows and shuriken flew her way. Alec had not fired a second arrow.

In his guts, he wanted to shout for everybody to stop. Was this right – hurting an Angel? He wanted to yell, to pry the weapons out of their hands, to throw himself in Magnus’s path as his boyfriend called his powerful blue flames and threw them at the perfect golden wings.

For a moment, the feathers caught fire; they sparkled the same way the witch stone had in the warlock’s hands, but then the flame became a blur as Armaita bolted for the roof – wings exploding into action. She rose to the top and came down for a dive. The sai were gone, but she held a large sword in her hands and when it collided with the ground, everything shook.

The explosion of the impact was massive: it threw everyone back with immense force. Most who found shelter could stay upright. Alec held on to the only thing near him he could grab – the Mortal Sword set into the ground before him. Armaita had not yet sunk the sword all the way into the stone under their feet, yet the entire hall trembled as if an earthquake had hit them. They all tried to hold on, but most were in the air, riding the wave of the explosion, hitting walls or benches or the ceiling, unable to escape the absolution of the effect the Angel had produced with one indirect blow.

Alec’s eyes were blinded by the force of the airwave, but he still searched for Magnus – the warlock was on the ground, tangled in his fall with the Lady Nerissa, both thrown away by the force of the explosion. When everything finally settled and somehow the hall still stood, Armaita retracted everything – her sword, her wings, her power. The stone floor had shattered, whole plates moved where the angelic blade had stuck. There was a crater now, large and gaping, mocking them in their helplessness. It was over.

But two people were still fighting.

 

“Keep your filthy flames away from my mother, you disgusting half-breed!” Nerissa spat at Magnus as she launched for his throat.

 

“Magnus!” Alec yelled and picked his bow to shoot down the Fairy Princess. He noted with his peripheral vision Jace had found his way back on his feet and was coming down with Clary and Izzy following suit – all armed still, launching for Armatia or Nerissa or both.

The Angel stepped between Alec and his arrow.

 

“ _Enough_!” she whispered and it was as if a shout. “That is enough.”

 

Alec had already ignored the celestial power blocking him from the father of his children. He had sidestepped in an attempt to get to Magnus anyway, but as the Angel demanded them to stop, Nerissa backed away from Magnus. It was obvious she would have liked to sink her sharp teeth into his throat though.

(Alec kept his bow ready just in case she changed her mind.)

 

“Nerissa, I thank you for your defence, but we both know I did not need it. Which means you have other reasons to attack Magnus.” The Princess tried to speak, but the Angel interrupted, “I will not have you blame Magnus for the crimes of your father. Now find peace within yourself and rest – it is not the time for battle yet.”

 

“How can you be her mother?” Clary asked. She was helping Magnus up while Jace was coming around to stand between the warlock and Lady Nerissa.

 

“I am the mother of all Fairies,” Armaita explained.

 

So it was true – the Seelie and Unseelie were in fact half-Angels. But was the other half human or demonic? Looking at the hatred in Nerissa’s eyes, Alec would have guessed the second. Although, if she continued looking like that at Magnus, it might begin to make no difference to him what blood the woman’s veins carried – he would put her down for good.

 

“It is my essence that I can never fail to answer a question or lie in my answers,” Armaita added. “Unlike my children however, I may not deceive or stall. Now that we have cleared that up, and after you have all tried to attack me... I must go fight the real war of this realm. Somebody must protect the humans of Earth, after all.”

 

Armaita turned to leave. Alec would have expected her to spread her wings and fly, but instead she headed for the exit. She paused next to him – her eyes were still sorrowful and full of sunshine.

 

“I would have liked to talk with you more, Alec Lightwood,” she told him. “I could have not lied when I said it is an honour to be in your presence. I would have liked to ask you so much – to tell you so much. It is a shame current events seem to part our ways. But I made a promise...”

 

The dazing sensation of celestial calling had returned to Alec’s soul. He could feel his blood go wild at the proximity of the Angel – with purpose, with fight. His hands gripped the bow tighter and he almost had to will it into stillness so he wouldn’t launch into action. He didn’t even have a target – Jace was flanking Magnus and there was no danger from Nerissa anymore – but he just wanted to find a battle to fight.

Armaita reached into a pocket of her trousers. She extended her hand at Alec; he peeked inside her palm and all of a sudden his heart stopped.

Against the darkness of her skin, the little toy soldier seemed to shine. It was scary and big and so, so small at the same time, like the little body of a lost brother and the heavy burden of a name once sorrowful that now brought joy. Alec stared at the little solider Max Lightwood had died clenching in his arms and the very air in his lungs suffocated him.

 

“Please take it,” Armaita requested.

 

Alec felt he truly had a choice in the matter. But then he really didn’t. He reached and took the toy, which turned out to actually be shining with the same invisible celestial light which the Angel projected. It was cracked down the middle.

 

“You can give one half to Max and another – to Rafael. It’s a protection from demonic forces: forged of Heavenly souls’ good will and love. It was Maxwell’s idea, but you will find the blessings of many other Lightwoods in it. And Herondales, and Fairchilds, and Blackthorns, and a certain overly enthusiastic Wayland.” Armaita smiled a little. Then the sorrow returned. “I am sorry for all you must still endure. If he would believe this, please tell Magnus Bane I suffer with him for the tremendous loss he must survive. Immortality is a curse nobody deserves. Goodbye, Alec Lightwood – live your last moments well.”

 

With that, she walked towards the exit. Alec watched her go, feeling the call find its purpose and trying to fight it. The toy in his palm as if pulsated with the burden of all the sorrows to come, all the mourning that has already started – for the faith to be endured by entire peoples, for sins they had not collectively committed but were to suffer in unison anyway. Alec stared at the Angel go and all he felt was the pull which called for him to follow.

 

“That war,” he said. “You mentioned a war. Against whom?”

 

“Against Hell,” Armaita answered, looking over her shoulder. Of course. “The Princes of Hell will ride the wave of the Daylighter immortality, crush the last layer of defences around the Earth dimension, and release their hoards onto its peoples.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] SAI – traditional weapon used in Okinawa. The basic form of the weapon is that of a pointed, prong shaped metal baton, with two curved prongs (yoku) projecting from the handle (tsuka).


	4. Invited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec cannot rest until he finds out more about the war against hell, while his friends think there are more urgent problems to consider. When the Shadowhunter catches up with Armaita, he learns more about his destiny; and what choices lay ahead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is in progress and I hope it would not take long. Comments are greatly appreciated, even if it's a few words to let me know how you feel about my work. Thank you!

 

Magnus loved Alec to his core, but he had never disagreed with him more profoundly than now. The young Shadowhunter didn’t want to hear anybody’s protests as he headed out after the Angel. Only Clary seemed to be on board with the idea to follow the gloomy messenger of Heaven outside and find out more about the war. Possibly, the mention of her parabatai’s former immortality was what held her interest, and honestly Magnus was intrigued as well.

But he was with Emma Carstairs on this one – better capture her and question her with leverage instead of trying to navigate the complicated way she answered questions. The Angel claimed to not be evasive, but somehow her answers were always too complex to be truthful.

The devil was, as they said, in the details.

Despite all arguments against, Alec and Clary headed outside. Left with nothing else to do, the others followed suit, Magnus and Izzy with the least enthusiasm. His second favourite Lightwood looked as pissed as he felt.

 

“What are we going to do, Magnus?” the girl asked him with air of hope which suggested she expected him to have an answer. “Could there be anything – a spell? Can we seal the entrances into this dimension the way it happened with Edom?”

 

Magnus sighed.

 

“I’ve been thinking about it, but if such a spell existed... It would have been used a long time ago to keep the demons out. Edom belonged to Lilith and Asmodeus – so they could control it as they wished, and so could Sebastian, being of Lilith’s blood. Nobody owns this realm, at least as far as I know. It belongs to all souls.”

 

Isabelle gave him an even, unhappy smile and walked sullenly after her brother. Magnus wished he had better news. He also wished all this wasn’t happening. He was glad Emma Carstairs and Mark Blackthorn had decided to come along – maybe they could be the aggressive negotiation voices, if the Angel needed more convincing.

Not that it had seemed like it made any difference: the collective efforts of the entire Clave and the powerful High Warlock Magnus himself was had not slowed down the feathered General even a little. It was disconcerting, if they were to try to stop the Archangels when they arrived to pass this punishment they had come to a brilliant conclusion was anything close to fair sentence. Magnus had not himself been a very loud defender of the Shadowhunters—rather the opposite, he enjoyed pointing out how close-minded they could get—and yet he felt turning all of them into Forsaken...

The possibility of seeing Alec like that – it was too horrifying to even consider!

So it would have been a good thing if they had at least made the Angel sweat. (If Angels could sweat.) Even as Magnus and the others were leaving, there was talk behind them of organizing a defence. Portalling out of Idris had turned out impossible, so now some would ride to the edges of the country to find out if it is possible to cross on foot. Some considered passing through Faerie, although Magnus wasn’t sure the Lady Nerissa was feeling generous in letting them through at the moment.

Mother of Fey! If there was nothing else to make Magnus suspicious already, this piece of information would raise some really big bright flags. Especially after one of the Fairies had tried to claw his face off.

Again.

By the time Magnus caught up with the rushing, rune powered Shadowhunters, they had found the Angel. She was sitting on the river bank, feet dangling over the waters, her back on them all. But she looked as if she was waiting, for them perhaps. Perhaps she had known they would follow—that Alec would follow.

The group had gathered together a bit farther behind the Angel, and they were whispering in rushed voices. Alec kept glancing at the woman at the bank and after the third time his parabatai tried to hold him back from going, he showed Jace something in his palm. Whatever it was, it got the golden haired Shadowhunter to shut up, and both he and Isabelle paled to the colour of Magnus's favourite ivory wallet.

Alec stepped away from the group and neared the Angel. Hopefully he knew what he was doing. Hopefully, the celestial being dangling her very fashionably booted feet over the waters wouldn't take his approach as an attack. Just in case, Magnus was ready with some warlock fire.

 

“I sensed you were coming,” the Angel told Alec as he levelled with her. “I stopped so you would catch up.”

 

Magnus noted his boyfriend was not surprised at the statement. He even seemed to have been expecting it.

 

“You could sense me?” he asked calmly, as if asking for an explanation rather than a confirmation.

 

“Yes – we are connected,” Armaita said.

 

She turned sideways to smile at Alec, and there was kindness there, appreciation. She had already expressed some admiration towards the Shadowhunter, and it had not bothered Magnus until now; but the Angel was too familiar with his boyfriend! Not that Magnus was jealous per se – people were allowed to notice how gorgeous his love was and envy Magnus for being the one who got to be by Alec’s side. As competition went, Angels in their arrogance and outlandish cold power weren’t a troubling opponent, especially since this one had ended up confirming Magnus’s suspicions: celestial beings were too proud and rule-abiding for his liking!

And although Magnus wasn’t jealous, because there was no actual reason to be, it would be more pleasant if some celestial, casually fashionable drama queen did not make the googly eyes at his boyfriend.

 

“You feel that too?” Alec wondered and Magnus remembered this was not about his relationship at all. “That calling?”

 

“Well. It is my essence calling to your blood,” Armaita explained. “So I am, so to say, on the other end of the call.”

 

Magnus had no idea what they were on about, though he could guess. Alec had seemed a bit possessed, and only a trick would explain his weird desire with following the Angel who had just threatened his species with annihilation.

 

“Why is it there? Does anybody else feel it?”

 

“No, nobody else with that intensity,” the Angle explained agreeably. She seemed glad to speak to Alec. “If we have met in other circumstances, Alec Lightwood, you and I could have formed a connection few are privileged to have. Only a handful of warriors have been granted this bond, and themselves and their Guardian Angels have vanished already, mostly in battle.

“This war which is to come, it should have been fought with Angels and Shadowhunters side-by-side. It makes me uneasy this judgment was passed just as Hell started knocking on Earth’s gateways. And yet, we are doomed to not fight together. I will not take you from you loved ones to bind you to me and my purpose when the curse of Heaven grows nearer.”

 

Alec did not seem so interested in the option of being left to wait for his doom. Honestly, Magnus was not sure what would they do; what is there to be done at all. All he knew was that ever since the Angel had told them what is to come, he had been afraid. If it was a choice he could make, Magnus would wrap his family, his friends in magic, protect them, he would hide them somewhere. But he had been around these Nephilim warriors for long enough – he knew they were not accepting of the concept of running away from a fight.

Which honesty he did not understand! Nothing wrong with some healthy dose of avoiding the problem every now and then!

And what of those who were left behind? What of the young Shadowhunters – those who have lived their lives as Nephilim: with Nephilim parents and friends and crushes. What about Rafael? Their son was young— _so young_ —but he was proud of his Angel’s blood, of his skills and the chance to one day be like his Daddy, like uncle Jace and his aunts Isabelle and Clary. Were the Archangels planning to erase Rafe’s memories of his father? Because then for certain Magnus was planning to try again what warlock fire could do against celestial wings – no way he was letting those fascist feathered idiots anywhere near his son!

 

“But what is this bond?” Alec wondered, unaware of Magnus’s quiet resolve.

 

“It is a dedication,” Armaita said. Her golden eyes flashed at Magnus, as if she had heard his thoughts. “I would request of you to become my Champion: a guide and an advisor in my mission from Heaven. It's a… trust, from the Angel to a human warrior, which includes several promises on both parts, mostly towards the human, as a gratitude for services to be rendered in Heaven’s name and honour.”

 

“What would I have to promise you?” Alec enquired with the curiosity of somebody who had already chosen an outfit and was now just trying to find out whether he had the funds for it.

 

But a deal with Heaven was not a light affair, and Alec had always been a terrible outfit-picker.

 

To Magnus, it sounded like his boyfriend was strongly considering this bond as an option. Right now, with the possibility of impending doom cast down by the Angel’s very own, the warlock felt this was not the most tempting option of how Alec could spend his last sane moments on Earth. Fight back – yes; resist his faith – sure; bargain – if necessary.

Yet Alec was focused on the Angel—and whatever she was offering.

 

“Not so much,” she explained. “That you would lead me to your best ability towards my purpose. You could decide on a path, for example, that would benefit humans more than Heaven. I can't do that, not ever, not unless my instructions demand it.”

 

“I could decide… As in, I can command you?”

 

That would be intriguing! But before Magnus could get his hopes up, the Angel explained further.

 

“In the mission, yes, in a sense. You can't take over leading my legions of course.”

 

Jace looked as disappointed as Magnus felt.

 

Armaita continued, “But we would he connected through my essence – it is what makes us compatible in the first place. As I explained, I am the Angel of Truth; in our bond, it would likely mean you would be compelled to tell me the truth, though possibly not forced per se. And I would always feel drawn to answering your questions honestly, perhaps even anticipating them. As you saw in the hall, I have a way of avoiding extensive questioning.”

 

“Got something to hide then?” Magnus wondered, now bored with being an outsider to a conversation he felt also should include him.

 

The Angel turned to stare at him and so did Alec. It was unsettling how similarly candid two so different gazes could seem: the wonderful blue of his boyfriend which always exposed his earnest emotions, and the peculiar golden irises of the celestial being, demanding absolute honesty and promising the same back. When she had said they are connected, Magnus hadn’t thought it a natural occurrence but a forced bond; yet perhaps it was a matter of matching Alec’s born-and-raised guile-free personality and the self of an Angel who claimed to always speak the truth unconditionally. 

 

“Not at all,” she told him with unsettling honesty in her eyes. In that moment, Magnus could not believe she was lying. Maybe that was the trick – she made them feel as if they could trust her.

“But I am obligated to answer all questions posed to me,” the Angel admitted. “If I let people bombard me with asks, I might be stuck responding for a very long time. And if I don't answer… Well, let us say bad things happen.”

 

“What sort of bad things?” Isabelle enquired with thirst for retribution in her eyes.

 

The Angels stared. And stared. And stared.

Just as Magnus was about the repeat the question, the being-become-woman before him crouched, clenching her fists together in a gesture which looked painful within itself. But it was her body shaking and retreating into the foetal position which gave away the agony. She was as if she was trying to disappear into herself. They all stared in shock, while the Angel was tortured by an invisible force – something within her, something they could not see or combat.

The shrieks left her mouth just a second after the crouch and they were hauntingly soul-wrenching. The world was dying and it screamed, and screamed, and screamed...

Magnus launched himself at Armaita, and only when he had crouched next to her agonizing figure did he realize Alec had joined him. They both placed a hand on the Angel’s back, the warlock trying instinctively to find a way to help her. He touched her with his magic and in the middle of a scream she jumped back, still yelling, and grabbed his wrist to stop him. They both tumbled, the Angel evidently not yet recovered from her pain, and they grabbled together towards the river.

Alec caught them before they could land in. His strong hands had Magnus by his waist and the angel by her wrist. She was still holding Magnus.

 

In the midst of agony-releasing gasp, they heard her mutter in a stunningly human way, afraid, “Asmodeus, no.”

 

Alec cast him a quick concerned glance but said nothing as all three of them shakily returned to a more upright position. By this time Jace, Mark, and Isabelle had come to help, extending helpful muscular warrior arms and pulling their entangled bodies apart to some decent stance. As Magnus was fixing his shirt, he noted only Clary standing to the side, perhaps aware she was too tiny to be of use to one Angel, one wiry warlock, and one strong tall Shadowhunter. But even Emma had launched forward.

Magnus had not known he meant so much to her. They’ve barely spoken!

The Angel was breathing heavily, but she turned to Isabelle to speak.

 

“These sorts of things,” she said.

 

Isabelle stared back and attempted to pretend she was indifferent or even pleased with the result of the Angel’s silence. Under Armaita’s kind smile, her carefully constructed facade fell apart and the Shadowhunter turned around, pursing her perfectly red lips as she walked away.

 

“That seems awfully disadvantaging,” Jace said, the eternal combat strategist that he was.

 

At the same time Emma announced, “If we’re supposed to sympathize with the one who promised to curse our entire race without discrimination – I am not impressed.”

 

Both Mark and Alec cast the girl a warning look Magnus personally felt she had not deserved. But it was Armaita who responded, this time with hardness to her voice which had been absent while she spoke with his boyfriend.

 

“At this point, I feel hard-pressed to outline how outrageously easy it is for you to blame the messenger!”

 

 “At any point – feel free to outline how atrociously disgusting it is to turn an entire species into Forsaken!” Emma retorted.

 

“I fought the sentence!” Armaita snapped, another true human emotion claiming her celestial face. “I was the Nephilim’s defender during the trial; I was almost accused of treachery for speaking out against the decision. The punishment for near-rebellion of course was that I would come to hand over the sentence. Heaven can be funny like that...”

 

Her distain for her own people returned some favourable feelings towards her, at least for Magnus. But Emma still looked stubbornly unconvinced. Although in his experience the girl was actually coming around, just didn’t want to say so yet.

Pride was definitely something Angels had passed down to both the races who had inherited their holy blood.

 

Which reminded Magnus:

 

“Mother of Fairies?” he said.

 

Armaita smiled in an unhappy way, as parents did when they knew their children were trouble but wouldn’t say it to strangers. (Not anything he was personally familiar with, but he had seen it done many times.) She was at least realistic about how things were.

 

“I am the mother of almost all of them.”

 

“Which Fairies are the exceptions?” Mark asked, seeing as he had a personal interest in the matter.

 

It would be awkward to both be the grandson of an Angel – which he surely was as the Lady Scratch-face Nerissa was his mother as Magnus remembered – and he was simultaneously dating the son of one of the most Ancient Fairies to ever exist. Although, Mark had grown up a Shadowhunter and they were disturbingly in-bread at times: historically there have been a few known cases of cousins committing to each other, which some found odd. Magnus personally thought he would gladly leave them alone to do as they pleased, especially if they did the same so he could finally marry his boyfriend in gold.

Thinking of Alec and weddings and other things that could never happen now, he played with the Lightwood ring on his finger and listened to Armaita answer.

 

“Some Unseelie are the children of Beelzebub and an unfortunate brother of mine; the demon Princess gave them birth. If it interests you, that made her rather unpopular with Lilith. Envy, you see – one other of Hell’s prised qualities.”

 

Mark did not seem interested in it. Magnus could have lived another four hundred years without hearing from Lilith or any of the Princes of Hell. _Especially_ the one Armaita had mentioned with the horror of only people who had met his father in person.

 

“Kieran is not related to you,” Armaita said when her speech met no response.

 

The fair-headed Shadowhunter blushed all the way to the tips of his pointed ears. Despite herself, Emma laughed, hiding it quickly behind a grim expression which she also as quickly abandoned. Armaita laughed a little, very quietly. It sounded like a summer breeze hitting the grass.

 

“Who’s their father?” Simon asked all of a sudden.

 

He had stayed a bit to the side, as usually a bit overshadowed by a bright collection of Shadowhunter pride. He was still so painfully mundane and clumsily-Downworld at the same time, stuck between so many worlds he tried to belong to all at once. It seemed to come to him remarkably easily, even if it perhaps wasn’t.

Magnus was proud of the man – he had turned out to be exceptionally open-minded in a rather infectious way, dragging, tossing, and shoving his fellow Nephilim towards a much more unprejudiced way. Some followed, and it felt like a huge victory to have Jon Catwright hang out with the werewolves in his local Conclave, having Marisol take pictures and send them to Simon every other hour. For the Catwright boy’s sake, he was lucky he had the usual oblivious attitude towards modern technology other Clave members possessed: one time he had tried to send a picture of himself with a pack member, tagging it bravely ‘doggy breath’.  Magnus did not know how cool the French Downworlders were with stumbling, new-to-tolerance, wanting-to-be-hip Shadowhunters, but he doubted they were _dog-jokes cool_ with them.

Now everybody stared at the previously invisible Simon and he shrugged at the discomfort of it.

 

“Well, they surely have a father, don’t they?” he asked of no one in particular.

 

“They surely do,” Armaita admitted with the ancient grievous doom of a tomb from before Man’s time. She was hurting.

 

Looking straight at Magnus—Magnus, not Simon—she whispered in a way that the warlock felt even the dead could hear. “Asmodeus is their father. The King of Hell, the Demon of Lust snatched me from my Heavenly home, locked me away while the Princes raged their war on the Angels, and he made me his bride.”


	5. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Armaita offers Alec the bond of Champion and Guardian Angel, the Shadowhunters all consider helping her with the war against Hell. Mark Blackthorn searches for help; Alec searches for the right answer. 
> 
> This one is quite long, it took a while to write. I hope you enjoy it. Next one is underway, but I have no idea when will I be done with it.

There were many things still to be said; many questions yet to ask.

 

But Alec had needed none of them answered before he had spoken to Magnus. He was not a great sharer of feelings or somebody good with words, or expression, or anything of the sort. His boyfriend was the one good with wrapping meaning into beautiful little packages, yet it was Alec who had needed to talk.

They had gone to the side, walking the streets of Alicante in silence, aimlessly, until Magnus had finally collapsed and launched for Alec. The warlock held him, _tightly_ , and all he said was one word, whispered a single time against Alec's hair.

 

“ _Alexander_.”

 

Alec had held Magnus and said nothing – because there had been nothing to say. So much they needed to consider together: Max and Rafael, Heaven’s curse, those last hours or days they had left to be normal and human and alive. Alec's mortality had always been close; closer still as a Shadowhunter – a profession marked with dangers lurking under every little demonically infested rock. But it had never been an impending threat; it had never knocked on their doors so imminently _. It had been so close..._ Yet they had escaped it, together, and now there was no spell, or trick, or weapon that could undo this curse.

 

When Magnus had composed, they had finally talked. In other times Alec would have closed within himself and tried to act instead of think. He felt at his best when emotions were not blurring his vision. But he had been a parent and a partner now for long enough to know: what he _wanted_ paled in comparison of what his family _needed_. He spoke of the gift, and Max, and their sons, and of them, and of the Lightwood ring, and that wedding that will never come now. Magnus spoke of celestial magic, of danger, of pointless risks.

Alec listened and nodded and disagreed.

 

He needed to be something more in the end – not a coward. Magnus understood; he always did. He understood, because he couldn’t understand, not when for an immortal man there was always another day, always the next century. But Magnus had rested finally, just like Alec had found his place, finally, and now they both had to let go: the warlock had to learn to be immortal again, after having learned how to live and think and love within the context of a single human life – Alec’s life.

 

Alec had promised he would be there every minute he was not fighting.

 

They were going to ask Armaita to take them home where their children waited with Mia Roberts and Lily Cheng playing babysitter in their own unique ways. (This was to say, they argued until they noticed either Max or Rafe had done a back flip into one of Magnus’s potion supply bags, at which point Lily scrambled and denied ever having been there, while Mia called a Fairy dealer to replace the stuff while she scrubbed the child off with one hand. It was known to happen.)

It was time to do something about the demons – a final act of Shadowhunter bravery. Alec would have liked to know he had at least tried. He would have liked to know he was the best version of him he could be, before Heaven parted him with his family forever.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“I will accept your offer to be your Champion,” Alec told Armaita, “but you must take us home.”

 

The Angel smiled, kindly.

 

“Can we pick up Theresa Grey and Zachariah on the way to New York?” she asked simply and stood up, wings spread behind her in their glorious multi-metal beauty.

 

Alec nodded, resolve in his eyes.

There was no turning back, and he hadn’t planned to run away anyway.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The process of Armaita opening a Portal was quite similar to Clary’s moves with a stele; she drew as if it was art, and the words had deeper meaning and a strange beauty to them, a sense of purpose beyond the brutish curves of the Nephilim Marks. Alec had grown so accustomed to the edges and twirls of the symbols which marked their skin, that the outlandish expression of the Heavenly signs was so breathtaking every time he saw them. He remembered both runes he had received at the very beginning of Clary discovering her gift: Fearless and Bind to. They had overwhelmed him beyond anything he could explain, so much that his other senses – even his parabatai bond with Jace – had taken a step back to allow the power of the Runes to take over. It was both beautiful and frightening: like Armaita was, and like Heaven promised to be, if the Seraphim General was any indication of an overall tendency.

The Angel’s moves were swift and artistic, each strike executed with the calm confidence of one who has done this thousands of times before. The Portal looked and felt different even from far away, but it was a Portal nonetheless. It used the same principles, or so Armaita said.

 

Jace and Clary had led the way – they were all stopping by at the Institute first, accept for Alec and Magnus, who were going home before anything else. It was them, Armaita, Simon, Izzy, Emma and Mark. The last two had said they were not joining them. The Angel had asked Magnus to help her convince his friend Tessa and her husband to join them in New York. He had refused.

Aggressively.

It was possible Magnus disliked Alec’s future Guardian Angel a lot.

Then, just as the pair was about to use the Portal to get back to the loft and their children, Armaita swirled to look somewhere over Mark’s shoulder. She clapped her hands welcomingly and smiled. Within his soul, Alec felt as if he too ought to be as joyful as she looked.

 

“ _Ty_! And Kit Herondale, a pleasure. I trust you were listening in on the conversation?”

 

Tiberius Blackthorn was indeed approaching them, a strange determination on his typically composed face. His boyfriend Kit was trailing behind him, seemingly uninterested. (Though Alec knew Herondales better than to be fooled by the facade.) The pair did not act uncomfortably in the Angel’s presence; they stopped before her, Ty slightly forward than the other boy, and he tossed his black hair from his eyes and looked at the winged woman, as if he was expecting her to know what he wanted to say.

She seemed to be able to guess.

 

“I imagine you have questions,” Armaita told him. Ty nodded. “Where would you like to start?”

 

“I feel the pull Lightwood described,” the boy said. Alec raised his eyebrows.

 

“Possibly not as strong.” Armaita hummed, thoughtful. “It should lessen if we are at different locations. Are you joining us in New York?”

 

“No,” Ty said simply, unapologetically. “The timeline?”

 

“Ah,” Armaita nodded, understanding. Alec looked around, not understanding. “The Archangels’ Descent is a process, ongoing and time-consuming. Possibly a week. They will remain less than an hour here, and it will drain the power out of our energy sources quite successfully. I consider it a great waste.”

 

“Demons?”

 

“Less than a week. I imagine we’ll notice if a single Prince of Hell arrives – they’re usually unsubtle.”

 

“Us?”

 

“I do not know,” Amraita admitted, sorrowful in that all-encompassing way. “But the trial came after the news of the war with demons, and the Archangels will drain power.”

 

Ty nodded. Armaita nodded. Alec remained confused. They had the sort of understanding one could not achieve by force, but came easily to equals by thought and knowledge. The young Blackthorn had always seemed a bit more than what the eyes can observe. Perhaps Ty was a better match for the Angel – with his intelligence, and the sharp eyes of somebody who didn’t fear anything. Alec felt doubt take him for a moment, and then Armaita smiled again, nodded in Ty’s direction and spoke with calm kindness.

 

“Stay with your family, Tiberius Blackthorn. Stay with your loved ones.” She urged Simon towards the Portal. “But be welcome any time you wish. If any of yours would like to join us, they are most welcome. You may call after me, but I am convinced both Nerissa and Gwyn would be glad to oblige if you wish to join us at any point during the next week.”

 

Armaita turned to Alec, noticed his doubt, now long gone from his face but still in his soul. She as if reached for him, and erased it, with the assuring promise of a bond much stronger than either of them could put into words. His doubt vanish by extension of that bond – even before sealed with a promise, it was as present in this world as the one he shared with Jace, and the one he had forged with Magnus.

Reassured and still determined, but not any less confused by the odd conversation, Alec stepped through the Portal hand-in-hand with is boyfriend. It was time to be home.

                                                      

~ ~ ~

 

There were many places to walk in Faerie and most of them were beautiful. The one Mark was walking now was enchanting.

 

He had left his family behind, because he needed to do something more than wait. Emma and himself were alike this way; Julian was all about family, and purpose, and love, and care, and determination, and passion of what was right against what was wrong. It was not to say his older brother and his parabatai did not share any of those qualities with him; it was to state simply, that in him somehow they were amplified to the magnitude of a storm which you did not want to face.

Mark walked the paths of Faerie, so odd and magical and undirected. He could run until his feet fell off, but he would not get where he wished to be, unless he knew the rules. He had lived many years here, and he had known the rules once upon a time – like in a mundane fairytale. Remembering them while he was here was slightly easier than when he was a Shadowhunter. He always had to put a line between those two things: being Fey and being Nephilim. They hardly co-existed, and if they did, it was usually in conflict. His two halves, somehow a whole, needed a constant reminder: that they were part of a union called Marcus Blackthorn, and he was the boss of them.

 

It was easiest when his heart was whole, and he was searching for its half right now.

 

“ _Mark_ ,” the wind whispered.

 

“Kieran,” Mark whispered into the wind.

 

A steed was not a horse, at least not all the time. It adjusted, according to need, but in the meadows of Fairy land, between its hills and mountains and valleys, it was usually a glorious animal which rushed with the speed of life if its rider needed it to. When Mark had lost his, his heart was broken in a way he could only fully comprehend while here; Fairy Mark, not Nephilim Mark.

Kieran’s steed galloped – a glorious white stag with antlers full of moss and mushrooms – and it forged a pathway of new life with each hoof-mark left into the ground. As the animal’s legs lifted, flowers bloomed behind it, small and spring-born. The magic of creation: the magic of love.

 

“Mine,” Kieran whispered as he stopped in front of Mark. His eyes were soft and kind, welcoming after a time long passed.

 

“Mine,” Mark echoed, recognizing his lover in return.

 

They rode the steed and lost themselves in hills and grass and moss, until the freedom was unbarring and the longing won.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“I will soon die,” Mark said while Kieran played with a string of blond hair from his head, braiding it.

 

There was a pause; they both had seen so much death, they both had been death. It was not a scary concept but it was to come, and life was as much a part of love as death was, if one understood it well. But separation was still hard, even for those who understood.

 

“I will not allow for Death to reach you, Mark Blackthorn,” Kieran promised and laid a kiss on Mark’s bare chest.

 

“My mother had not spread the news?” Mark asked. Kieran shook his head.

 

So Mark spoke. He told of Armaita, and her bond to Fairy land, and the Princes of Hell; he spoke of the Clave and the corruption, and then he spoke of their curse. The finality of the sentence hung between the hills, soaking into the very grass beneath their naked bodies and the nonexistent space between them, drowning everything.

Kieran was at a loss of words.

 

“You are half Fey,” he said at last. “The judgement must exclude you.”

 

“It does not,” Mark assured him with a sorrow he felt resembled that of an Angel – encompassing. “And while my brothers and sister will turn into mindless creatures, my Fairy blood will make the Runes burn upon my skin until I am mad. Helen knows it too – she has been trying to prepare.”

 

“Return here, then,” Kieran suggested. Begged. Demanded.

 

Mark shook his head. “It is not so simple.”

 

He reached up and caressed Kieran’s face. The beauty of a Prince was endless; but there was another kind of awe he was looking for – the spark in the eyes of a lover, the kindness in the curve of their lips, passion and longing and need cradled within every smooth millimetre of their body. And behind all that, he found sorrow: waiting, crying, pleading.

Mark sighed, defeated.

 

“It is not that I would not run to you; it is also not that I would not feel like running away. But there are...”

 

“Things,” Kieran finished, the word so simple sounding foreign on his lips. “Your family.”

 

“I will not leave them. Helen would never go – because of them and because of Aline. And I will not let her do this alone. And...” Mark took in a deep breath. “There is the war. With demons. It feels wrong to let that be somebody else’s job.”

 

“It is not your job,” Kieran said, bitterly. “You have done so much for the world. For the Clave. For mundanes. How could you give more? Within me there is longing to be given as well, Mark Blackthorn!”

 

The sadness in his tone was what the world was made of, at least Mark’s world. He could not bear it. But he had come to share his resolve, not to be given a chance to change his mind. He knew his words hurt, but he also knew they must be said.

 

“I will fight in this war and face what must be faced,” Mark said with the finality they both knew too well.

 

“Then I will fight too. And I will die with you.”

 

Kieran’s eyes matched in expression as much as they differed in colour. The promises they had made to each other – promises no Rune or Shadowhunter ceremony could ever match in magnitude – shone as celestial light between them. Two creatures made of Angels’ blood, made togetherness by promises which existed in all realms, and the void between them too.

 

“You don’t have to do such a thing,” Mark promised. He would rather Kieran lived.

 

“I have no use of a life that does not include you,” the man explained.

 

They caressed the grass again, and this time it was in desperation. As Mark was held close, as he was being kissed, and devoted, and _his_ —time trailed as it did in Faerie and everything stopped to allow this moment to be perfectly desperate and perfectly theirs. They wept and promised and breathed each other in, until there was nothing else.

 

“ _Mine_ ,” Kieran stated against Mark’s lips, not as a question to his lover but as a statement to the dimensions and what was between. It was a promise to not allow anything to part them, not even death. They were to meet it together.

 

Mark did not accept it, but he rested, knowing there was nothing to be done but go forward to their destiny.

 

“I will do everything in my power to get allies for this war we are to fight,” Kieran vowed while they dressed.

 

The steed had trailed far away, nibbling at grass and leaving flowers behind as evidence of its erratic moves. The Fairy Prince called it with just intention and it sprang to them in one perfect giant leap, as if it was a single small step. Mark caressed the stag’s forehead and he tried to lick his fingers.

 

“I hope your search is not a hard one.”

 

“Mark...”

 

His name hung in the air, like a warning with too many words to speak. Kieran smiled a half-smile, an untruthful smile which if it was a sentence he would not have been able to form it to his lips as adequately. Noticing the lie, Mark frowned and silently demanded truth.

 

“The Angels – I do not know them, but I know of them. Lies, most likely, spoken by my grandmother, and my father after her...”

 

“Beelzebub,” Mark clarified without need.

 

“She is very demanding. Strong. And allowed passage to Faerie, just like Asmodeus is. Just like your grandmother is.”

 

“Armaita,” Mark said, again without a need.

 

“Angels are cruel beings made of rules,” Kieran stated, not without grief to his voice. “It will be hard to face them, and even harder to bear their judgement, if it falls upon you. And they put Heaven before all. So are you sure you can trust your grandmother?”

 

Mark thought. And he failed to arrive at a response which felt true. Determined not to lie despite the lack of chains of pureblood Fairy lineage restraining him from it, he pursed his lips and shook his head.

 

“I do not trust her. But I trust this: there is a war to be fought, and I want to fight in it. And if I am to be lucky, I will die in it, before I must test the truth behind your grandmother’s words about Angels.”

 

Kieran’s sorrow manifested with greater strength than ever. He came to Mark, now fully dressed and fully in pain. He grabbed the hand that had been caressing the steed, and then the other, and he pressed them to his cheeks as if to keep them there forever.

 

“If I am to be lucky, you will not die at all, Mark Blackthorn,” he said. “But if you are to leave this world, you are to leave it with me, or our vows will be broken for eternity. You promise me now, the way you promised to be mine, that you will not part from me. Bind first promise to the second, and die with me as you have promised to live with me.”

 

Mark was silent. Promises in Faerie meant more than random words. They were binding.

 

“ _Promise_ ,” Kieran demanded.

 

Mark allowed the tears to return.

 

“I promise it,” he vowed, and left his lover with a kiss to remember the promise by.

 

 

~ ~ ~

 

It was in the silence of the evening, after the kids had gone to bed, that Magnus truly showed him how he felt.

It wasn’t words or pleas or tears. It was the way he held on to him.

Now, Magnus and Alec had done... things. There have been fingers biting into skin, and red marks on necks, and scratches on shoulders. There had ones been handcuffs. Once, Alec had pressed the warlock, face against a wall, and not let him go until they were both breathless and undone. But there has never been _this_.

The way Magnus held on to him was desperate and claiming, like it had never been before. There were marks on his back, and redness on his lips from the bites, and his skin had burned with blue warlock fire which didn’t cause harm, but it screamed as loudly as the world, _minemineminemine_ , _staystaystastaystay_. Alec was used to pain – he was a Shadowhunter and getting hurt was part of his life. But the agony in Magnus’s eyes he could not bear – it drove him to insanity and in the heat of the moment, while his boyfriend cried out against him with both passion and despair, he was ready to agree to anything to make it all go away.

The promise to Armaita was off.

He was letting Magnus wrap him in magic and hide him, run away with their children in any dimension he pointed him to.

Then Magnus had recovered and he had pressed their foreheads together.

 

“I could never ask you to live with yourself if I convince you to leave everybody behind and run with us,” the warlock said. “No warlock who can do inter-dimensional magic would take our case anyway – they know better than to come in the path of Angels. We’ll face this, Alec. I know you need to face this.”

 

Relief washed over Alec in a way he had not expected. What a strange thing: to be more comfortable with the promise of war than with the hope of escape!

He did not question the feeling but instead savoured another thought: Magnus understood. And Magnus would support him, because his boyfriend—that man who had lived many lives, who had seen many people part with this world, and would not accept the concept of death upon himself, or the concept of old or young or ordinary—knew one must live in a way, that by the end of it they were proud of what they had done and unregretful of the things they had not done.

Alec could never die with the thought he had not fought to defend the Earth.

The Archangels will not find a coward to curse, when they came for him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

_It should not be this warm in December_ , Alec mused as he moved quietly towards the New York Institute after midnight.

He had left Magnus working, searching for anything about Angels and Princes of Hell, in a hope to eliminate at least one of the dangers coming their way; the kids were sleeping blissfully, their pieces of the little soldier tucked under their pillows.

When Alec entered the Institute, the place was incredibly quiet. He walked the corridors looking for somebody—anybody. He found Church. Who definitely shouldn't be here, especially since Zachariah _stole_ him from them!

 

“Where's everyone, Church?” Alec asked when the cat eyed him as if expecting a festive greeting.

 

Church led him to the library. There things were _not_ quiet.

 

“How could you let something like this happen? Don't you have any honour? Any gut?” a familiar voice of a woman challenged.

 

“ _Tess_!” a warning came.

 

“I will not apologize for this – if you know something is wrong, you do something about it.”

 

Armaita sighed, apparently tired of that same conversation over and over.

 

“Any rebellion against Heaven is punished by banishment or death. I could have been joining the Princes of Hell if I had stood against the decision. And yes, I have honour, and quite a lot of gut, if need be.”

 

“Well, need was,” Tessa answered in remarkably Herondale way.

 

Alec decided it was time to announce himself. He had no intention of excusing Heaven’s monstrosity of justice, but he also didn't feel like listening to any more people blame Armaita for it. It felt wrong, somehow.

The doors opened and in the very centre of the library Alec found Armaita casually sitting at the top of the large table there. Tessa was closest to the entrance, as if she was threatening to leave, Zachariah a bit to the side, stance indicating he had all intentions to stop his girlfriend from attacking a celestial being. Alec personally had not knows Tessa to be capable of it – she was always kind, although Magnus swore she could be fierce at times. Maybe these were the times.

 

“Alec!” the warlock exclaimed, glad to not have to talk to the Angel anymore.

 

She met him on the stairs as he was descending into the room, embracing him familiarly. He returned the hug. Then he looked down at her.

 

“Is everything OK?”

 

“No! No, how could it be...”

 

Tessa was sad. Not in the way most people were, not in the way most people grieved or felt sorrow take over their souls; Tessa had about her the same air of mourning Magnus had – with desperation and agony and madness threatening to boil over the surface. She was part Shadowhunter, and that part might even be stripped off – Alec did not know – but she would live on while the rest of them would not.

Zachariah would not. Her friends would not. Her kin would not.

Alec had just left agony behind him and he was met with more. Perhaps it was how it should be. And perhaps it was why he was launching into action: because if he sat down to mourn, he might start understanding too well how the two warlocks felt.  

 

“Is this Angel telling the truth, Alec?” Tessa asked him, masking eternal grief with curiosity. “Is there a war coming?”

 

“Armaita cannot lie,” Alec said simply, shrugging. “And I believe her.”

 

Tessa hummed, doubt and a lot of sullenness written all over her face. Zachariah shook his head. He seemed surprisingly calm. Perhaps for one as old as him, death was not a scary concept.

 

“Alec,” Armaita called and he turned to her as if he had been waiting for her to speak his name. In retrospect, he realized he had been waiting, feeling her eagerness under the veil of his own feelings – an instinctive ability to tell what his future Guardian needed.

 

“How do we do this?” he asked and Armaita smiled.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Alec had produced his bow and quiver for the Angel and now they both stood at the rooftop of the Institute. Tessa and Zachariah had followed them up but were standing far away, observing. Suddenly, Alec felt self-conscious: what if he screwed up a part of the ritual? What if something went wrong? What if in the end it turned out they were incompatible after all and he could not really be an Angel’s Champion? It felt like something Jace would be good at, not him.

 

“Relax,” Armaita told him when she felt his worry. “I haven't told you everything about this relationship we are about to form,” she admitted and then sat down on the ground, spreading her large wings around her.

She continued, “I know you have made up your mind, but there are things I am obligated to disclose, parts of the bargain that are essential. Then and only then can I accept the honour to be your Guardian.”

 

“What is it?” Alec wondered. What else could there be?

 

“First, you must know that when binding yourself to me, you will be promising to serve Heaven as well as Earth, and if you act willingly against the Angels, I will have to kill you myself,” the Angel explained.

 

That didn't seem like an obligation to Alec as much as a warning, but he considered it in the silence which followed. He thought about what it could mean, if his friends decide to fight the Archangels and he had to stand by, because it would mean meeting his doom by the hand of his Guardian. He thought about allegiances and about loyalty. He thought about the love he felt for all those people who were family.

He also thought that when it came down to it, being struck down by Armaita’s sai was a kinder faith than being degraded to the level of Forsaken. So he nodded.

 

Armaita spoke further. “There is one last part: my own obligations. They are mostly what you would expect from a Guardian Angel. Firstly, in battle we would fight as one and I would have your back. I know this is usually the relationship between parabatai; I cannot reassure you it wouldn't take some adjusting to, but it would be an instinctive reaction on my part. That, and I am quite likely to respond to your emotional state a lot.”

 

“Can you feel how I feel?” Alec asked, fearing the worst.

 

It was embarrassing to know his insecurities have been on display for the past half a day, even more so if that was to be amplified by a bond. He didn't like baring himself for others to see, emotionally, and Magnus was the only one who ever got him to express his thoughts without restraint. It was because his boyfriend had deserved that by being opened in return, or trying to be.

“To an extent, I could,” Armaita admitted. “It will be more intense with the bond into place, because it is part of the agreement we enter. It is like this: your greatest strengths as a human being are the ability to feel passionately, and to choose freely. I am restrained in both departments; but if you feel what I intend and I sense what you think, we could together forge a path that could fulfil both the goals of Heaven and the needs of Earth. You are my anchor for right and wrong, Alec.”

 

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility,” he muttered.

 

“Scared?”

 

“Can't you tell?”

 

She laughed a little. “Always more polite to ask. But before you consider this, let me add the last bit to your calculations. When we bind as warriors, as comrades, we also bind in purpose. Your life would be enchained to mine; your faith depends upon mine. It is typically done to ensure the Champion does not fall in crucial part of the mission, or that if the mission would take a century, the one chosen could undertake it as the Angel’s relative equal. Sometimes, it is a process.”

 

“Wait? What?” Alec was suddenly very aware of the other two Shadowhunters listening from the side. “I won't… die?”

 

“Typically, you cannot die for the entire duration of my lifespan,” Armaita clarified. But she said it with sadness. It was meant as a gift and a weapon—with warriors these were often the same thing—but today it was a regretful circumstance. “The bond will keep you fixed into this world – a constant turning point as the world spins around you, dying and rebirthing. It is rarely a blessing, a life so long.”

 

“Are you saying Alec could be saved?” Tessa asked. She had come closer, her grey eyes now softer. She likely thought of Magnus, of how much he would suffer when the judgement came.

 

But Alec could not think of that. So now, not only was he not allowed to fight by his friends when Heaven came, but he was also not allowed to die with them? It was a cruel sentence to bear.

 

“Alec will not be saved,” Armaita clarified, the grief of an ancient tomb in her voice. “He will bear the sentence as all Nephilim. And as he dies from starvation or thirst or injury, he will be reborn again through our bond, to die again. For as long as I live. Which, with this mission, could be a week, or it could be – potentially – millennia.”

 

Tessa growled under her breath. “This bond is beginning to sound like a curse to me!” she noted. “Why do you need it in the first place?”

 

“Myself and my armies take power to exist on Earth; we typically dwell in the shadows, more energy than corporal beings. As long as Alec agrees to guide me, the Cupidons could come to this dimension using our connection instead of energy from Heaven – which could be trying if there is no anchor for them on Earth.”

 

“So, you ability to fight Hell depends on whether I agree to die a thousand times while you stand against the Princes of Hell?” Alec asked.

 

“Probably million times, or billion; but yes, it does.”

 

He shrugged, specifically not looking at Tessa. He hoped she wouldn't rush to tell Magnus about this – it would be another reason for him to hate Heaven, and the next week would be hard enough without his boyfriend snapping at anything Armaita suggested.

 

“Then it's hardly a choice at all, is it?”

 

Feeling his resolve, Armaita pursed her lips, but he could feel pride hiding behind her sadness. He nodded. Tessa tried to protest, but the Angel ignored her.

 

“Give me your bow and quiver,” she said to Alec.

 

And it began.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Gold and silver and bronze and platinum; the music of the world: faith, hope, freedom, awe.

It was what Heaven was made of.

When Armaita reached for it, all she could describe was a feeling: calm in the middle of chaos, the peel off the rays of the stars, and the heat of Creation on the feathers of yours soul. You flew while lying down and lay down while in motion; you were at peace inside and out, even if the Universes all fell apart.

Humanity would have thought it was happiness, of some form. Gift, perhaps. Success.

But these were all active things, action based and in motion.

Heaven did not move and it did not conquer. There was no fear to flee, no sorrow to extinguish, no failure to elude.

Calm. Just peace.

It’s what Armaita reached out to when she searched for her strength, when she needed to hold on to her warrior soul.

It was another thing humanity would never understand, with their emotions and their passion and their hate – to fight was not to destroy, unless you wish your own soul demolished. To be a warrior was to be content, to accept what must be done and follow through without restraint, without regret, because in the end you knew: it was what was right.

Because there was a difference between warriors and soldiers. Heaven had many soldiers, in many dimensions beyond Earth, so many souls who yearned to do what was right or violently hated what was wrong. Angels did not hate Hell. They did not feel bitter or sad or wounded because of the betrayal on the Princes’ part. Instead, Angels felt resolve: Hell had come into existence, and Hell must be fought.

Purpose fit into place without effort, without fight, as if programmed into them. As if they were the software and demons were Trojan horses coming for the system they defended.

Armaita did not hate Hell.

But she did not live in peace.

Cupidons were neither warriors nor soldiers; in between, always stuck at the edge of two worlds, between blissful serenity and emotional anguish, they needed to be empathetic enough with emotion to guide souls on their path, but objective enough to still serve the Heavens loyally.

It meant Armaita felt the wounds of the rape. She felt the wounds of the assaults. Of the beatings. Of the torture. Of the magical illusions. Of the depravation. Of the humiliation. Of the failure.

She missed Heaven and its peace often.

But she did not regret her nature.

Not when she watched Alec Lightwood’s heart beat with that true love: the love she embodied and cherished. Armaita would have sacrificed herself over and over, if humanity—if all souls, including her children, could live the lives that they deserved, with that love so pure, so complete.

Armaita wished sometimes to be human, not out of envy or spite but out of yearning for that comfort – it tasted as if it could feel like home. Like her Heaven.

 

“May each arrow whisper with celestial purpose,” Armaita blessed, touching Alec’s quiver. “Because if we were screaming, we’d be of the evil.”

 

“May each blow caress with celestial purpose,” she blessed, touching Alec’s arms lightly. He jumped at the touch, filled with magic of a kind he had never felt. “Because if we were hurting, we’d be of the evil.”

 

“May each vibration be steady with celestial purpose,” she blessed, touching Alec’s bow. “Because if it were bending, it’d be of the evil.”

 

“May each word cut through to the soul,” she blessed, touching Alec’s forehead. “Because if we were cutting flesh, we’d be of the evil.”

 

“Alexander Gideon Lightwood – named to defend mankind, born to bring light into the world – guide this Angel to her purpose; for she is of the Heavens. Do you pledge your arrows, the blows of your fists, the vibrations of your bow, and the words you speak from today until the day you and your Guardian shall fall: do you promise to defend your dimension in the name of Heaven? Do you pledge to stand against those of evil?”

 

Peace. It was peaceful in Alec’s soul, like Heaven would live inside him. He had love and he had purpose. He had hope. He had truth. Armaita felt at home pledging her protection to him.

 

Alec looked at her with the steady fire of certainty. He nodded.

 

“Yes. I—I promise it.”

 

“Good. And until the end of my days, I promise to protect your life with mine. Where you would sacrifice, so shall I; where you shall give, so shall I; where you shall wait, so shall I; where you shall act, so shall I.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Gold and silver and bronze and platinum; the music of the world: faith, hope, freedom, awe.

It was what Armaita was made of.

When Alec reached for her, all he could describe was a feeling: calm in the middle of chaos, the peel off the rays of the stars, and the heat of Creation on the edges of yours soul. You flew while lying down and lay down while in motion; you were at peace inside and out, even if the Universes all fell apart.

 

His weapons were soaking with Heavenly fire now, a war awaited, the destruction of his species after, and all he could think was

 

that he must go back home

 

to Magnus

 

to their children

 

and tell them they are his world

 

and tell Magnus that he was afraid

 

but that he would hold that bow and shoot his arrows straight, because when he was gone from their lives, he would not leave them in a world ravaged by the horrors of Hell.

 

**Author's Note:**

> LUPEI - From the Romanian lup, which means "wolf".


End file.
